Largo
by Katja1
Summary: Futurefic. ''You walk the road to resurrection, and I walk the road to dead; and I've given you my devotion, but I walk the road to dead.'' S/I. (complete)
1. falling from her skies

Author's Note/Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Also, this has no connection to any previous stories I've written. Thanks for reading. :)  
  
* * *  
  
When he slept, briefly and not fitfully, he dreamt intermittently of her face as daylight began to break. She would regard him, perhaps even be somewhat surprised initially upon recognizing his face, and her features would slowly turn to stone. It was not that he was afraid of being frozen out; although he felt sure he would not enjoy that particular potential turn of the tables, his heartless persona did not often fall away to reveal hidden sentimentality where none existed. He would certainly feel nothing upon her rejection other than irritation. Not even with her, but with himself, for allowing this to happen.  
  
He had been traveling for months now, always two steps behind, or two steps ahead, of his predictably elusive prey. With no ties to anyone, including his former employer, he had found little with which to occupy himself other than the pursuit of one final target.   
  
The bloodbath in Austria had merely been an excuse for her to disappear; he recognized that now, although he had not at the time. The night before, she had given herself to him almost completely, saying the words he didn't realize he wanted to hear until they had already been said. She had not said 'goodbye' or 'I'm sorry'; she gave him no warning about what was to come beyond the barest details of the mission. Of course she had known he would be able to hold his own once things began to go "wrong," and so perhaps it was her idea of a gift, one last night together alone, blissfully ignorant. Perhaps this sort of deception was merely the closest to nurturing she would ever come.  
  
At first, he had almost been too shell-shocked to hold a grudge. After all, she had ensured he would be spared, along with herself, even if they were not reunited after all was said and done. What more could he have asked? He knew he had always been a place-holder in her life, he knew; a surrogate son, a replacement lover, the only one who truly understood and respected the choices she had made. Sloane would pretend to understand, but he was always an outsider, and perhaps toward the end he had sensed that, made some ill-advised threats in her direction. Whatever brought it on, when the dust settled, she had left her former husband near to death on the battlefield; her collaborator, her daughter's lover, and many others in the crossfire were not so blessed. She was gone, presumed dead in an ill-timed explosion set by the enemy, but more likely alive and finally in possession of all that she ever really wanted.  
  
And he had emerged unharmed and free.  
  
So had her daughter, although she did not consider that a gift, and perhaps it wasn't intended to be.  
  
Sydney Bristow had launched a one-woman search of her own, a fact of which he had been made aware by a few associates who had been loyal to his employer, once upon a time, back in the U.S.  
  
He had certainly not expected to cross paths with her, but he did, in Liverpool. Later, he would be unable to explain exactly why he'd felt compelled to make the stop, but he had been traveling for some time without pausing to breathe. Something about the weather here matched his shade of melancholy, and the oppressive air fed his increasing frustration.  
  
He was sitting alone on the steps outside the hotel, watching a cigarette burn between his fingers. The sensation of being still was at once disorienting and refreshing, and for a brief moment he entertained the idea of ceasing his search for a woman who did not want to be found.  
  
Unless she did, unless she expected it somehow--  
  
No. He'd promised himself he wouldn't think about any of it tonight.  
  
So it had come as quite a surprise to find a familiar adversary standing before him, presenting a fist for the fight.  
  
He easily avoided her attempt to slap him, gripping her wrist tightly. He did not look at her face.  
  
"I didn't kill him."  
  
"Who was it, then? Was it her?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
He remained silent.  
  
"Why are you here?" she persisted. "What are you looking for?"  
  
"What are you looking for?"  
  
It was her turn to keep her lips sealed.  
  
He exhaled imaginary smoke and released her wrist, almost as if he had forgotten he was holding it. It seemed as though she had, too; all the fight leaked out of her like air from a punctured balloon.   
"Let's just say she stole something of mine," he concluded, and rose to leave. "And I'd like it back."  
  
"If I find her," she said in a voice so low that he could not be sure she had spoken, "When I find her, I *will* kill her."  
  
"She won't give you that opportunity," he observed neutrally.   
  
She regarded him suspiciously, and curiously, and he knew that if the connection was made somewhere in her mind the ensuing revulsion would smear her lips into an even angrier scowl. But the connection would not be made, ever, by anyone, although sometimes he found himself wishing they had been less careful and some observer would have determined the truth. At least in that situation this oppressive secrecy would not have led to the constant, searing sting across his chest every time she was mentioned and he was not afforded the right to grieve.  
  
"I've been following you for a while now," she said. "I've been getting ready for this."  
  
He stood silently before her, an open challenge. But it is less fun to attack a man who will not fight, and you will hate yourself after you have achieved a victory that is not rightfully yours.   
  
"I'm not ready for this," she admitted, and he knew this battle was over for now; she actually believed him, which would have been less remarkable if he had not been telling the truth.   
  
"Come inside," he said, momentarily softened by the thought of all she had lost and all that she would never understand. "I'll buy you a drink."  
  
And in the moments before dawn arrived, he slowly pushed through the last traces of an alcohol stupor to find himself beside her on the unpleasant mattress he'd paid for the privilege of using for the night. She was fully clothed, as was he, shoes and all. Their bodies were quite different, he noted clinically. This is not the same as it was before. So it was just as well that he had not attempted to replace one with the other, because it would not have worked. He almost liked Sydney, despite everything, and he felt sorry for her, because she would never be able to grasp the part she had always been intended to play, and he could not explain it to her. It was something she should have known, and didn't, something she would forever lack.  
  
Every child was inevitably destined to disappoint its mother.  
  
And on that note, he lifted himself gently off the mattress, with the intention of getting an early start on this day's leg of the journey. She stretched and shifted position, taking up the space he had left empty, moaning slightly. He did not leave a note, did not whisper a last goodbye.   
  
He left discreetly, headed in the direction of the next destination on his list of possibilities. There were no witnesses, no one to say, 'He went that way.' He had little doubt that Sydney would one day succeed on her last mission; he would not make it easy for her. To do so would deny her the vengeful satisfaction to be found in the thrill of the chase.  
  
Prior to closing the door on Sydney Bristow one last time, he briefly contemplated taking advantage of the weapon she had artfully concealed. He could use it on her, finish what Irina had perhaps not had the fortitude to complete, thirty years or six months ago. But he was feeling uncharacteristically kind toward her at the moment, so as she had spared his life a few hours before, he decided to extend her the same courtesy now. The thought briefly entered his mind that he should at least remove the bullets, render the weapon harmless.  
  
But he kind of hoped one day Sydney would find the nerve to go through with it. 


	2. like a forgotten soldier

He did not see her again for some time, but after that night he always kept an eye out for her face in every crowd.  
  
Deciding how to handle her persistence would be difficult, he knew, provided that she didn't just return home as an acknowledgement of her defeat by Irina, by himself, by the universe at large. But to what home had she to return? If Bristow wasn't dead yet, he soon would be; someone would surely see to that. Her friends who were left would be unable to relate to Sydney, so devastated after having her life stolen at another's whim. So he kept an eye out, but when she found him again six months later in Paris, he didn't see her coming until she sat beside him and demanded an answer.  
  
He suspected she was following him merely because she believed or hoped he would lead her to Irina. With that in mind he had changed his itinerary, moved around more than he'd initially intended. He thought maybe she would have lost interest, gone off on her own. If she had, her independent search had been as fruitless as his own, because here she was now, older and harder than she'd been six months ago, or a year before that.   
  
Fresh wounds had made her soft the last time they'd met. Now they had become calluses, made her impenetrable. This almost reminded him of Irina, except that she was still too angry to be amused. She was not yet ready to strike back, no matter how badly she wanted him to believe she would do so if given the opportunity.   
  
He was almost relieved to see a familiar face after so much time spent staring at strangers, speaking to few. It would not be long, he was sure, before his voice would simply atrophy; then the rest of him would follow, fade into the hollow body of a guiltless tourist. No one would notice, no one would care.  
  
(Unless his suspicions were true; then perhaps one person might care. Perhaps.)  
  
"What are you drinking?" he offered pleasantly as she sat across from him, a familiar stranger in this crowded bar.  
  
"Where is she?" she asked in a tone clearly intended to remind him she was armed.  
  
He suppressed his first response, swallowed it with so much vodka. Then: "I wouldn't be here if I knew," in a tone intended to remind her he didn't care.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" she demanded, genuinely distraught, as if perhaps he were doing something painful to her by leading her in circles or meaningless zigzag patterns for weeks.  
  
"I don't know what you mean," he said impassively, scanning the dance floor as though he was looking for tonight's companion.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"I don't know! Jesus." Too much, maybe, but he needed to convince her.  
  
She was quiet, then, and he almost felt like he should apologize for snapping at her, knowing what he knew. But what had happened wasn't personal, at least not for him. He didn't feel responsible. He hadn't known, and if he had it wouldn't have made much difference, or any.  
  
"Why are you doing this?" she asked again, softer this time. "Wandering around. Looking for her. You are looking for her, aren't you?"  
  
He did not say: I am looking for her because she has been waiting for my arrival, and every passing day is a disappointment to us both. It wasn't entirely what he believed when he was honest, but considering the prospect that perhaps sparing his life was not her formal farewell made hours spent staring at repetitive landscapes somehow sweeter.  
  
He did not say: I am looking for her because every day that passes during which I don't arrive at the place I should have known she would be for all this time is one more failure.  
  
She nodded as if he had spoken. "At first I thought you were headed right for her, that it had been planned. Then I began to realize that you're looking for her, just like me." She paused. "So, why? How?"  
  
He shrugged, finishing his drink. "Nothing better to do."  
  
"I don't believe that."  
  
"I don't really care." He stood up, tossed some bills on the table, and walked away.  
  
"How do you know she isn't dead? I mean, for a while I thought she was, until you started moving around."  
  
She was prodding him, clearly, waiting for the precise moment when her fingers would strike the dark center of the bruise. He simply remained silent. After all, perhaps it was true; he had no proof to the contrary, merely a quest that kept his mind occupied with thoughts that did not include that one. But to admit anything would lead to further questions, and he was already beginning to tire of her company.  
  
"Why don't you just go home?" he asked suddenly, turning to face her.   
  
"I will," she said. "When I'm done."  
  
He stretched his arms out to his sides. "Do it, then. Fucking get it over with."  
  
Confusion passed over her features before she said, "Not you." A pause, then, as if to reassure him of her detachment: "Not yet."  
  
He dropped his arms, turned away. "You might as well. You'll never find her."  
  
And he honestly hadn't meant for her to hear his own defeat in those words, not like before, but he suspected she did, because no obvious retort was forthcoming for several minutes as he began to walk away again, and she to chase after.  
  
"What I don't understand is why it matters to you. You said she took something of yours. How could it possibly be worth all of this?"  
  
"You're right. It isn't."  
  
He was surprised to hear disappointment. "You're giving up?"  
  
"That's right," he said calmly. "Your only lead."  
  
"I'm staying," she replied, in a tone that clearly indicated: I'm not fooled.  
  
"Good luck, then."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
He turned to face her once more. "What more could there be?"  
  
"After all this time--"  
  
"After all this time," he repeated, "I am returning to London, where I will remain until the next employment opportunity arises." He paused. "I hope you find what you're looking for," and if he was speaking more to himself than to her, she did not notice.  
  
When he walked away this time, she did not follow.   
  
Three hours later he boarded a train to Germany. Five addresses remained on the crumpled paper he'd found discarded in an Austrian hotel room. Five more chances. And he'd successfully removed Sydney from his trail; he had watched her enter the airport bound for some unknown destination which could not possibly be the same as his own.   
  
Later it would occur to him how naive he had been to believe she would abandon her own quest so easily. He would be forced to blame it on the vodka. 


	3. a headful of bees

"You didn't think I'd give up that easy, did you?"   
  
She was already sitting on the bed in his hotel room in Germany when he unlocked the door for the first time. The thought of meeting her once more honestly had not occurred to him during the duration of his journey here by train, but he was still somewhat relieved to find she appeared to have been more amused than angered by his attempt to shake her.  
  
"I think I would have," he shrugged, tossing his bag carelessly into the closet. No one around anymore to admonish him like a parent. No one around to care if his things were on the floor or neatly arranged elsewhere. If he was pleased at all to once again see the only familiar face available, she would not have known just by looking at him.  
  
She stood, then, smiled at him like she was someone else, and perhaps as though he was also someone entirely different. He could still see the quiet devastation behind her eyes, but somehow it managed not to make the facade seem pathetic. He nodded, slowly, agreeing to her unspoken proposition: Let's get out of here, tonight. It's too late to search for any barely-legible addresses now. Let's pretend you're not you, and I'm not me, and this is home.  
  
She walked directly past him, out the door without looking back. And for lack of anything better to do, or because he felt like speaking his native language, or out of concern for her safety (no, probably not that one), or driven by curiosity about the change in her mood from murderous to hostile to disappointed to delusional, he followed.  
  
Across from her at a nondescript table that might as well have been located in Liverpool, in Paris, in New York, anywhere, he realized: not adversaries, not allies, there was no conversation to be had with this particular companion. Pretending to be strangers was not a game that could last very long here. No impassioned questions, no threats, no grudging agreements, no small talk, no apologies. It would be better to skip a meal and head straight for alcohol.  
  
If she perceived his discomfort, she said nothing; he did not imagine she cared much about his comfort, to be certain.   
  
She followed his lead when he ordered a drink, and then another, and after an hour she was the first to finish the last of their rounds. "Ready?" And without waiting for an answer, she was off, not even walking slowly to allow him to catch up.  
  
Again he was powerless to stay behind.   
  
"What happened?" he finally asked, lengthening his stride to keep up with the steady rhythm of her heels.  
  
"Hmm?" She didn't look at him, instead scanning the mostly-closed row of shops beside them.  
  
"Come on," he said, working hard not to slur any vowels. "Normal yesterday, this today. What happened?"  
  
She paused. "What you did--you did it to protect me from her, didn't you?"  
  
He could hardly tell her the opposite was true.  
  
"It wasn't my only motive," he said carefully.  
  
She nodded shortly. "I know." Another pause, then softly: "But that's what happened."  
  
He decided not to ask any more questions.  
  
She did not continue on her previous trajectory then; instead she glanced at the rare, brightly lit window in front of which they'd suddenly found themselves. Her mouth bent in a smile that did not reach her eyes, but still appeared genuine. He tagged along after her like a put-upon older brother forced to chaperon a trouble-prone younger sister.  
  
"Let's do it," she announced, as the large, bearded man beside the cash register flicked a disinterested glance in their direction. "You want to do it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I do."  
  
"Okay."  
  
When it was his turn, she brought him a small bottle of vodka--remembering, perhaps, their previous encounter--and he felt an odd twinge of guilt for not having been so thoughtful when she was in his position.  
  
She watched the process with fascination, although when it had been her own skin under the needle she had closed her eyes tightly, as if she were unaccustomed to pain. Perhaps whatever character she had chosen to play tonight really was.  
  
Later, in the tangled layers of hotel blankets and sheets, waiting for darkness to descend, she idly tapped her fingernails against the small white bandage square taped across the small image now embedded on his shoulder. Curious fingertips, fueled by the influence of foreign substances in her blood, traveled tentatively in a pattern around the square as he pretended to sleep.   
  
He was tempted to stop her before it happened, but perhaps it was inevitable that she would find the first of a thousand scars, raised pink slices, each connected to a memory; this had been the first sign of a mother's love. (Not his, not really hers either.) It was just as well; the absurd juxtaposition of old and new and then and now jarred him out the complacency into which he had briefly (blissfully?) been willingly lulled. He waited until her fingers withdrew and her body stilled.  
  
And if he paused a moment longer than necessary, later he could blame that on external factors more powerful than sentimentality, certainly.  
  
He found the paper easily, neatly folded into sixths and stuffed down into an obscure pocket inside her bag. Her handwriting was neat and careful; in Liverpool, it appeared, she had taken the opportunity while he slept to faithfully copy even the addresses he or they already had visited. He kept the paper and left her bag as if it had never been touched by foreign hands.   
  
The coldness of leaving her behind and thoroughly adrift felt dissatisfying, although he could not explain why this should bother him; after all, it was not as though he would reconsider and allow her to accompany him on the next leg of his journey. Clearly, she needed to be stopped, and this would be an effective way of doing it. Was it his fault she had let down her guard, however briefly? Was it his fault she had decided to almost sort of trust the only person she still knew, however tenuous their connection might be? No. He was doing her a favor. But something was still wrong.  
  
The shadow of a smile passed over his lips as one final thought occurred to him. Five minutes later, he disappeared from the room, then the hotel, then the country.  
  
As sunlight bled through the curtains several hours later, Sydney yawned and tried to stretch, unsurprised to find herself alone. It was a chase, after all; what would be the challenge if one or the other of them decided to surrender? Her eyes were reluctant to open, wet from the night before, and her head throbbed slightly, politely, as if to say: I've decided not to split open this morning, but, you know, you can't indulge yourself like that and expect there to be no ill effects. The face she'd tried on and discarded the night before had apparently decided to leave a permanent reminder of its brief existence; the small symbol embedded in her arm was predictably sore.   
  
It took her several minutes to register that the sore arm was free and the good arm was not. Rather, it was bound to the nearest bedpost with something she couldn't yet see. She rubbed her eyes pitilessly with the free hand in order to make out the trouble with the other; it appeared to be a necktie.  
  
She was still clothed. She would remember if something happened, right? He wouldn't have... she wouldn't. No.  
  
He'd actually left her with a joke.   
  
She freed herself and quickly set about cleaning up. She'd have to move fast if she wanted to catch up again; there was no telling how much time had passed since his departure. 


	4. bent out of shape

Sometimes he wondered why he even continued searching for her after the time that had elapsed between then and now.  
  
The train finally lurched forward as he prepared to leave Germany, having made a quick trip to the fourth remaining address to ensure that she was not there. Of course, he had found nothing but an angry man awakened too early and unwilling to part with any information, not that he had anything to offer anyway. The romance of his search was beginning to lose its luster.  
  
After all, perhaps it truly had been a favor to him that was done when she disappeared. Not just the sparing of his life, although most days he believed he was grateful to her for that, but the fact that her departure effectively ended whatever it was that had gone on between them for however many months it had been. She'd taken care to ensure that his last memory of her, of them together, was a good one. Perhaps she wasn't waiting for his arrival--not that he ever really thought she was, or at least that's what he would claim if the question ever arose. Perhaps he should just leave her alone, wherever she was, if she was anywhere.  
  
Now it seemed he was only going through the motions, still searching simply because it was what he had done for so long. If she was alive, why wouldn't she have made her presence known? Had she simply abandoned her search in favor of total isolation? There were so many questions that would never be answered; even if he found her, he would not presume to ask them.  
  
Even if he finally located her, what could possibly come of that? What would exist between them if she were not giving orders during the day and he was not following them, seeking to ensure her absolute approval almost every time? A smile flickered across his lips briefly as he imagined: in bed, Sunday morning, reading the newspaper; she would take the news section, give him the comics. Not likely, no. Maybe he didn't even need this anymore. He was older now, if not by much physically, then prematurely aged by the experience of grieving and hoping and failing to hope and endless, aimless travel.   
  
And there were new marks on his body that did not belong to her.  
  
(At this thought, he scratched idly at the edges of the square bandage taped over the evidence of the previous night's escapade. He couldn't quite remember what it was he'd consented to allow them to imprint into his skin, only that the man who'd done the honors had warned him at great length in broken English of the dangers of removing the bandage too early. A moment's discomfort seemed preferable to a lifetime's displeasure. He removed his hand from the area and resolved to be patient.)  
  
So perhaps, he concluded, he should make good on what he'd told Sydney he intended to do the second time they met. Perhaps he should simply return to London, find some other employer to take orders from. But he'd come this far; he could have found her months ago and answered at least some of his questions already. Three more addresses.   
  
He'd had trouble determining where to go from Germany. If Sydney remembered the next destination, even if she no longer had her list, she would proceed to Spain. Therefore, deciding upon his next move required figuring out his purpose: to avoid Sydney altogether, or to keep her from finding Irina before he did. As his belief in Irina's survival had finally begun to dwindle, it was a more difficult decision than it might have been on a previous occasion.   
  
Morbid curiosity and the (possibly) illogical notion of loyalty led him to Spain at the end of his journey. This time he did not pause to deposit his belongings in a rented room before proceeding directly to the address she'd left for him, intentionally or not. Unlike most of the other locations he'd visited, this one was an actual home, as opposed to an unmarked commercial building or warehouse. A feeling of dread more intense than he'd felt anything for a long, long time pulsed through his veins. Turning back would be ridiculous, at this point. When he reached the door, he lowered his bag to his feet slowly. For the first time, he actually hoped she would not be found here. He cast a final glance over his shoulder to be sure Sydney was not approaching, or lurking, observing silently, waiting. Impossible; she would have been several hours behind him, if she had even decided to continue her quest.  
  
The door was answered abruptly mid-knock by a tall, thin fellow wearing clothes a size too big for his body and glasses. Sark was tempted to apologize for disturbing him before even asking his usual question, but remained still. He had asked the following question in so many languages now it was almost amusing. Die Frau, wo ist sie? Où est la femme? He did not even bother with a greeting, much less an introduction. The man regarded him suspiciously, but he no longer appeared particularly threatening. "La mujer. ¿Dónde-"  
  
"Who asks?"  
  
He nearly stuttered, but held on to his cool. "Mr. Sark, please." The man closed the door and disappeared for what seemed like a very long time. He expected him to return with a confused girl; Rosario, the babysitter, perhaps. "I don't know you," she'd protest. Instead, he merely opened the door wider this time, and ushered him inside. "She says you're safe," he explained, in a tone that indicated he was not so sure.  
  
He collected his belongings and stepped inside what was clearly a residence. Hers, now? Another husband? Long-lost brother? Secret collaborator? The man seemed more like an English professor than a revolutionary.   
  
"I'm Eduardo," the man explained as they proceeded down a hallway into the back of the house. "I was just leaving."  
  
And at the end of Eduardo's path, Sark still expected to find a confused Spanish woman.   
  
"It's really you," she said, pushing her chair back from the kitchen table, setting her glasses atop the file she'd been perusing.  
  
She nodded over his shoulder at Eduardo, and waited until the front door clicked shut to speak again.   
  
"I'm surprised," she continued slowly, standing, approaching him. "I didn't expect you to make it this far. Unless, of course, you started with the last one first. But then it wouldn't have taken this long."  
  
He wanted to speak, but felt reluctant to give too much away; how he'd given up on finding her, how he was relieved to find her alive, how he was almost certain he would have led a still-vengeful Sydney directly to her doorstep. So he swallowed, and smiled.  
  
"I'm glad you're here," she said matter-of-factly. "I didn't expect you, but I'm glad."  
  
And she kissed him, and the questions that had plagued him for hours, days, weeks blurred into an indistinguishable haze. Her hand on his shoulder quickly detected the presence of the white square, and she pulled back to investigate it further. "Have you been in trouble?"   
  
Funny you should ask... "Not exactly."  
  
"Can I take a look?" Her fingernails were already prying away the tape before she finished forming the question. Surveying the design, she smiled, perhaps amused by his youth. The familiar flicker of irritation subsided as she applied her mouth to the raised skin; he had not been in her presence for ten minutes and already she was reclaiming his body and everything else as her own.   
  
He decided he would not complain. 


	5. a needle and a ledge

He was surprised to find her beside him when he awoke the next morning, surprised she hadn't disappeared during the night. Sleeping peacefully, her fingers laced between his own, it would be easy for an outsider to underestimate her capacity for destruction. After so much time spent apart, he found it difficult now to reconcile this woman with the single-minded, heartless employer he'd served for so long.   
  
But, then, Sydney would undoubtedly find it difficult to reconcile the man who remained loyal to Derevko with the man who had spent the night getting intoxicated and tattooed with her in Germany. Would she consider it a betrayal? That would depend on her definition of their tenuous connection, he supposed. After all, doing what is expected of you cannot technically be counted as a betrayal.  
  
She would be arriving soon, unless she did not. He would have to tell Irina before she discovered Sydney on her doorstep, before she could reveal the way she'd found them. If he told her himself it would be one failure; if Sydney told her, it would be two. When she woke, he vowed.   
  
He lay still, then, as the Sunday morning sunlight fell across his chest and her arms. She shifted, moved closer. He felt her heart beat steadily against his side and watched as time slid gently to a stop.  
  
* * *   
  
When he awoke a second time that day, she was gone. Lightning did not, indeed, strike twice. He rose and wandered the grounds looking for her. Instead he found a bedroom occupied by Eduardo and another man, who monitored a wall of security screens. When the second man turned his head to reprimand the unauthorized visitor, Eduardo touched his hand to the man's shoulder. "She said he was okay," he explained, as if he were not quite convinced yet but felt it would be best to follow orders.  
  
Sark held up his hands in mock surrender.  
  
"She's downstairs," the other man said shortly from his seat beside the window, and he simply nodded in response, leaving them to their intent inspection of the street below from the variety of views provided by an array of security cameras. Time had only made her more paranoid, it appeared. If only he could dismiss her paranoia as irrational, outdated, a relic of her discarded past.   
  
He found Irina in the kitchen once more, staring out the window.  
  
"Good afternoon," he offered.  
  
She turned to him and smiled.  
  
"I have something to tell you," he continued quickly.  
  
"Sydney," she said.  
  
"Yes."   
  
"They saw her arrive at the station not long ago."  
  
He did not ask who 'they' were. It was irrelevant. He monitored her carefully for signs of fury or even disappointment, but none were forthcoming.  
  
"She'll be here soon."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
She nodded in response, averting her gaze.  
  
"What would you like me to do?" he asked, almost dreading the reply.  
  
She remained silent, and after a moment turned her back to him again.   
  
He pushed himself backward and leaned against the doorframe. They stood there in silence, together alone.  
  
He heard the voice of the nameless man, shouting something he couldn't make out in Spanish, then at least two pairs of feet pounding down the stairs.  
  
Irina did not move. Neither did he.  
  
He heard shouting: the nameless man, Eduardo, an unmistakable female voice demanding answers. One of the male voices ceased to speak; it was then that he forced himself to investigate.   
  
Beyond the doorway, the nameless man lay motionless, splayed across the stairs that led to the street below. Eduardo had two guns trained on Sydney, who matched him with one; an identical furious desire for vengeance lit up her eyes and his. Sark wordlessly placed himself between them.   
  
"Go," he commanded over his shoulder.   
  
Eduardo remained in place.   
  
"GO," he repeated. "Esto no está para usted!" His meaning could not be questioned. The man pushed himself past Sydney--her one weapon now aimed steadily at the center of Sark's chest--and disappeared down the street on foot.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Please?" It was just a whisper, but it meant everything. He clung to protocol: feel what you must, display nothing unless it's necessary to get the job done. He understood she probably believed him to be even more reprehensible and heartless than ever before, as he stood calmly before her, unmoved by her righteous plea. She was right, and he was wrong, and she had clearly allowed herself to forget the barrier between them that kept him from abandoning all he ever had to align himself with that which was good and true. He had allowed it to happen, chasing her down anonymous streets, role-playing, pretending this would not be where they would end up.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, investing the words with as much emotion as if he had been tossing off an apology to someone whose shoulder he'd accidentally bumped while passing on the sidewalk. But it was true, even if she chose not to figure that out; he was sorry for what had been done to her, for letting her believe that after enough time had elapsed and enough distance laid down between he and his employer, he could be different. Most of all, he was sorry for what he had to do.  
  
Confusion flickered behind her eyes. It was clear to him that she wouldn't really shoot, at least not fatally, despite her efforts to present a mercenary front. He stepped forward, and she said nothing. He was about to make a sudden move, get the job done, as distasteful as he might have found it to be this time, when a hand on his shoulder pulled him back. He did not fight. Irina traded places with him. Sydney raised her gun with renewed enthusiasm.  
  
"You decided to do it yourself," Sydney assessed, glancing over Irina's shoulder at Sark. "Commendable."  
  
"You shouldn't have come."  
  
"What else did I have to do?" she asked in a voice so low it sounded closer to a hiss than a bitter accusation.  
  
Irina shook her head to signify regret (mostly false, he supposed). "What happened was entirely unforeseen."  
  
"Right. And--"  
  
She fell forward, unceremoniously dropping to her knees, whatever fight had remained in her drained out entirely now. Behind her, Eduardo stood, wielding a tranquilizer gun.  
  
"Thank you," Irina said.  
  
"May I ask what you're going to do with her?"   
  
She appeared genuinely surprised by his question, and did not answer.  
  
"Martin," he explained softly.  
  
She nodded, understanding now. "Sacrifices must be made sometimes," she said, clearly with little interest in continuing the conversation, her distraction evident. "You know that. So did Martin."   
  
He stood there, staring wordlessly, as if he could not believe anyone would pledge their loyalty to this woman, who cared nothing about anyone else. She turned away from him, and Sark watched him disappear a second time.   
  
Surveying the damage, she continued: "We'll have to take care of Martin, and then work quickly with Sydney."  
  
"Will he talk?"  
  
"No."  
  
Sark was dispatched to dispose of Martin, and the familiarity of former tasks brought a rush of comfort. He enjoyed filling his old role, knowing his place again. This was home.  
  
Or so he tried to convince himself, anyway. 


	6. cash and carry

Moving Sydney into a less awkward position so that the front door could be closed properly, Irina must have noticed the new symbol etched into Sydney's shoulder, identical to the one she'd already discovered on him--a small, simple black circle, within it written one word: "verlassenen." Forsaken.  
  
That would explain the same questioning glance she tossed in his direction more than once when he returned from taking care of Martin's body. He did not bother to answer questions that had not yet been asked, and she did not bother to articulate her suspicions. After all, he was here; how could she doubt him now?  
  
When all had been arranged, she sent him to a small airport 20 miles away, with a heavily sleeping Sydney in tow.   
  
He hesitated before speaking after receiving the order, but pushed ahead: "Was she not meant to be the--"  
  
Irina cut him off with a curt nod and a rueful smile. "Everyone makes mistakes. Believing that was mine."  
  
He wondered what she wasn't saying; it could not have been a mistake that had led her to abandon everything, wipe her slate clean, hide away here with new ambitions that were a secret even from him but clearly also relatively small-time. Perhaps it was not Sydney's destiny about which she had been mistaken, merely her capacity to fulfill it.  
  
"Tell her I'm sorry," Irina said, and he did not reply: the girl's been through so much already, must I lie to her as well? He wondered whose benefit the apology was intended for; was it meant to make him perceive her as more caring than she was, or was it meant as one last attempt to convince Sydney she had not meant to do what she'd done? Probably the latter; it seemed unlikely she would be that concerned about what he thought about her or the situation or anything else, a truth he'd always accepted.   
  
But the nagging suspicion in her open eyes during and after her unexpected goodbye kiss provided a moment of secret pleasure that recurred each time he replayed the scene in his mind during the flight.  
  
Before he left, she slipped into his hand one more slip of paper, and whispered something else into his ear, then sent him on his way.  
  
The pilot of the private airplane she'd arranged was another of her employees. Sark carried Sydney from the car to the plane, armed with a few additional doses of the tranquilizer that had so efficiently knocked her off her feet. A car was waiting for them when the plane arrived at its destination. Getting her from the car to the house was far more difficult; luckily, it was around 4am, so he was able to quickly construct a story about a girlfriend who'd had too much to drink, in case anyone asked. But the sidewalks were empty, the street silent.   
  
He found her house key in the bag she'd abandoned at the gate of the house in Spain.   
  
He deposited the body in her bed and backed toward the door. For a brief instant, he entertained the following delusion: he could rest beside her, as he'd done before, and they could pretend Spain never happened. For all Sydney would remember, maybe it hadn't. Maybe it had only been a vivid, fuzzy dream brought on during the worst hangover of her life. He could stay here, with her, pretending he really was different now, that the old way of life did not fulfill him anymore.  
  
What good would it do? She would never be able to wash Vaughn's face from her memory, no matter how many false personas she assumed to detach from her sorrow. He would never be Vaughn; she would never be more than she was, the same limited capacity that had led Irina to give up on her one last time would undoubtedly disappoint him as well. Yes, that prospect made it easier to walk away.   
  
But leaving her was still more difficult than he'd anticipated, and so he stood there, watching, waiting, daring her to awaken suddenly.   
  
Some time later, as he passed through the living room on his way out of the house, he noticed a familiar figure stretched out on the couch. He drew his gun for protection against sudden moves and woke Jack Bristow, who appeared to be in better health now than he had been when they last met, to deliver the news.  
  
"Sydney's back," Sark informed him. "She's asleep. She's fine."  
  
Bristow took a moment to process the new situation.  
  
"I'm leaving now. Don't follow me, or, I swear to you, I'll--"  
  
"I won't follow you."  
  
Sark nodded, and backed off.  
  
When he reached the door, Jack spoke again. "She'll find you. And when she finds you, she'll kill you." A pause. "Both of you."  
  
It was a wild stab at any vein he might still be able to hit. Sark's instinct was to betray nothing, to keep him guessing forever. But time had regrettably softened him; he considered giving Bristow a sign that she was still alive. But perhaps it would be best for everyone if Bristow believed his former wife had perished in a horrible accident months ago, that she had not known what she was doing. If he learned the truth, so it would be, but this belief might provide him with enough closure to take himself and Sydney away from the wreckage of their former life, and never seek again to find what could only bring them harm.  
  
He stared at Bristow evenly, then slowly shook his head. "I assure you," he said smoothly, "it's only me now."  
  
It probably wasn't the last lie he would ever tell.  
  
As he walked quickly toward the car, he kept his head down. Drops of rain dotted the asphalt with irregular spots, although he could not detect the water falling around him.   
  
And she had said: this is where I'll be, but if you don't come back, I'll understand.  
  
But the choice had never been his to make.  
  
* * *  
  
the end  
Note: The new summary is from Paula Cole's "Road to Dead."  
  
Thanks for reading. :) 


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